


High Heels and Brushed Steel: The Greatest Hits (2009)

by ramathorne



Category: Left 4 Dead 2
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence and Gore, Gen, M/M, Swearing, sort of linear, sort of not, squint for that gay motherfuckers SQUINT FOR IT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 04:10:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8042089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ramathorne/pseuds/ramathorne
Summary: Snippets from a long-forgotten and abandoned project where I wanted to write short ficlets based on soundtrack titles from the Greatest Nonexistent Hits by The Best Hard Rock Band That Never Was. Mostly gen, kind of gay, and Nick gets owned a lot, because I enjoyed seeing him in pain, I guess.





	High Heels and Brushed Steel: The Greatest Hits (2009)

**Author's Note:**

> hello, it's me again.
> 
> i've been too sad and stupid to create anything substantial, but i was feeling particularly masochistic earlier and rooted through my old writing folders. it filled me with much pain and anguish. found a few pieces that were worth reposting though.
> 
> this is so old it's from when i was still writing in past tense. particularly bromantic and/or gay-ish pieces will be properly labeled.

**High Heels and Brushed Steel (2009)**

 

* * *

 

 

_Disc One_

 

**1\. Midnight Ride**

"God damn it, Ellis, you are a goddamned, crazy, no-good, shitty hick of a driver, and if we die by car crash in a goddamn _zombie apocalypse_ I will SHOOT YOU," Nick screamed, scrabbling for a hold on anything-- everything in the car, but this car was built for racing, not for safety, and there was nothing to stop them, oh _god_ , nothing to stop the roar of the engine echoing into the sky, nothing to stop Nick's brains from _splattering all over the windshield_. Coach and Rochelle shared his sentiments, albeit in less violent, but more colorful ways, and they screamed, and screamed, but they'd already crashed through the entrance-- zombie guts and glass streaming off the blue race-car like it was being released from sort of freakish pupa.

Ellis just _laughed_ the entire way-- roaring, raucous laughter, and somehow, it cut through their terrified shouts and imprinted itself in that memory. Maybe later, much _much_ later, far away from Jimmy God-Damn Gibbs Jr., in the security of a safe room, Nick would admit that the whole experience was maybe kind of funny.

Maybe.

 

**2\. One Bad Man (AKA: Nick is tsundere)**

"You ain't so bad, Nick," Ellis warbled, stupidly, grinning something awful as the other picked him off the ground-- even as he felt his bones creak, the bruise on his chest purple from the Charger's impact, and his eyesight go red with pain.

Nick told him to shut up.

 

**8\. Beer Batterin'**

"You know what that Hunter just now made me remember?" Ellis croaked, as he pushed himself back onto his feet, "I could definitely go for some fried chicken right now."

"Fried chicken?" Nick echoed, incredulous. He turned around to really look at the mechanic, completely distracted from the more pressing matters at hand. "You get clawed to pieces by a Hunter and it reminds you that you want fucking _fried chicken_?"

"Aw, Nick, now look what you gone and done," Coach complained, (" _Me_? I didn't do anything!") wiping his meaty fingers across his forehead as they raced along the side of the building, trying to keep ahead of the swarm of infected. "Now _I'm_ fixin' for it. My grandma, now, that lady had the finest beer batter recipe I _ever_ tasted. You could deep fry a tire and it'd still be delicious."

Nick caught a glimpse of Coach's face and could have sworn that the older man was salivating. He daydreamed briefly, and that's when he caught himself, throwing his hands up into the air in exasperation.

"Now _I_ want fried chicken," Nick groused, "And I don't even like chicken! Why do you make me want things I don't want, Ellis? Why is it that whatever comes out of your mouth is suddenly more important to me than anything else? How come you can't talk about something like, I dunno, letting me punch you a good one?"

"C'mon, Nick, don't it sound good right now? I swear, man, next time we come across some houses, I'm checkin' the 'frigerators, and we can get some--"

"Boys?" Rochelle called, loudly, impatiently. "Can't this wait 'til _after_ we turn off the merry-go-round?"

 

**9\. Whiskey On Bourbon Street (Nick+Ellis)**

"You keeping that to yourself, Overalls?"

From his squatted position just outside of the bar, Ellis looked up, then next to him, and he cracked a tired smile when the gambler sat down to his right.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he managed, tipping his cap over his eyes and leaning his head back as he passed the bottle to Nick. Nick took the whiskey and the bottom swept upward in a graceless swig. Ellis took it back to drink as well, and then, after a moment's pause-- set it between them.

Nick chuckled, low and raspy, murmuring something under his breath, and Ellis laughed along with him, both of them too tired to cause a ruckus.

For once, the streets were quiet, save the sound of crickets and the crackling of fire.

 

**11\. Your Face (In My Fist) (Nick/Ellis)**

He doesn't even remember what they were fighting about anymore. He remembers that it was important, that it was something about trust, or friendship, or some shit like that; he doesn't remember what Nick said, but he remembers that it was a big fat lie, and then they argued, and then Nick insulted his momma, and it felt really, _really_ fucking good to crack a punch across Nick's jaw.

Nick jumped him then, and they tumbled across the floor-- spitting and snarling like a couple of wolves, grabbing at torsos and arms and, oh, shit, Nick _did_ weigh more than him, even if he didn't look it. Ellis felt the dull pain of a fist colliding with his nose, and the tinnier, stinging feeling of rings cutting open the flesh just below his eye.

He scrambled-- for a hold, for the floor, for anything, groping blindly at the solid weight on his stomach, finding Nick's shoulders and just _pulling_. The older man jerked toward him and their foreheads cracked together.

Nick swore something fierce, something low and vicious and he had his hands clamped on either side of Ellis' head, but instead of pulling away Ellis held him steady-- nostrils flaring, heart racing, forearms locked tight behind the nape of Nick's neck and his lips pursed in a grim scowl of concentration. Nick gasped for air like a dying fish gasped for water, trying to wrench away from the vicegrip and failing miserably.

"You dumb _shit_ ," Nick finally wheezed, harshly, desperately, and now he wasn't trying to get away. "You _dumb fuck_ , you fucking bastard. You motherfucking, piece of shit hick-town trash--"

"Fuck you too," Ellis snarled, tightening his hold, eyes squeezed shut to fight back the tears, his nose pressed into Nick's cheek. "You sonnuvabitch, you fucking sonnuva _bitch--_ Jesus Christ I never thought I could hate someone but man you almost take the _cake_ \--"

Nick laughed, then, a raw, ragged sob that exploded out of his chest like something ugly expelling itself from his body. His fingernails dug into Ellis' hat.

They stayed like that for a while, bloody and venomous and holding on to each other like they couldn't let go.

 

**12\. Ain't Got Nuthin' (AKA Nick is still tsundere, sorry.) (Nick+Ellis)**

"Why're you still here, Nick?" Ellis had asked, once, curiously, quietly, in the dark of the safe room, where Coach snored and Rochelle curled herself around her gun. The sight and sound of it was almost comforting, if you didn't pay attention to the constant whirr of the broken store lights, or the way the frogs outside croaked something ominous, or the constant fear of that _fucking giant zombie thing_ breaking down the door-- and, well. Okay. It wasn't that comforting.

Nick looked over. The dim light from the emergency power lamp outlined the other man's face, the way he was chewing at his lip, the brim of his hat. He didn't even look like he was pretending to be asleep.

There was silence, for a while, and Ellis' question almost crawled away and hid in the darkness, almost like it was a dream, like Nick had never really heard it at all. He scrubbed a hand over his face, exhaling.

"Because, killer," he replied, slowly, and Nick wasn't one to hope, let alone to God, but he was trying _extremely hard_ to sound _tired_ and not like he was _thinking_ about it, about his answer, because what he wants to say needs to sound casual like-- "I've nothing better to do, is all."

"You've nothin' better to do, is all," Ellis echoed, and then that's when he really looked at Nick, _looked_ at him, and, dammit, that was the thing Nick did _not_ want him to do. He grimaced to show his disdain.

"Yeah, I _do not have anything better to do_."

Ellis stared. And stared.

Then he grinned.

"You _like_ us," and it was the loudest whisper Nick had _ever_ heard in his entire fucking life.

"I do _not!_ " he hissed back, instinctively, and he felt stupid as soon as it came out of his mouth. Something about arguing with Ellis made him resort to being six years old. He turned over to signal the end of the conversation.

"Oh man, no, no." and he knew Ellis fucking was _leaning_ over him to talk in his ear, "The illusion is gone, Nick. I know you like us now. You ain't the bad man. You ain't gonna be bad _nothin'_. You ain't gonna be nothin' but cute next time you throw a temper tantrum about 'bein' stuck with us'."

"I think you should shut up before you start throwing a temper tantrum about bullet holes in your teeth."

"I think someone needs a hug,” Ellis whispered, and Nick shoved him then, pretended the burning of his face was less about the warm glow settling in his stomach and more about Coach's sudden sputter-cough. A man with sleep apnea tended to wake violently.

"I think I hate you, Ellis,” Nick snapped. Made sure to turn himself away quick enough so that his smile didn't reflect in the spare light they had.

"I still like you, Nick,” Ellis assures, and Nick resolutely does _not_ take comfort in the quiet, honest truth in his voice.

 

**13\. Yankin' My Chain (Nick+Ellis)**

Blinded by bile, Smoker tongue around his waist and, oh man, Nick was _pissed_ that it was going to end this way, lassoed up in a fucking amusement park and being torn into by a million dirty hands like some sort of primitive pinata with his intestines as the spoils--

And that's when he heard the roar of a chainsaw, felt the gore splatter all over him and the distinct whoop that made Nick mentally swear that he would stop and make Ellis the _biggest fucking_ bag of cotton candy he had ever seen.

"I never," he gasped, later, in the haven of the safe room after he'd gotten the puke out of his eyes, "Never thought I'd ever be happy to have you be the first thing I ever see, kid."

"Aw, hell, Nick,” Ellis says, scratching the back of his neck and looking far too innocent for a man covered in sick-people gore. “You're gonna make me blush."

 

**15\. Payday Blues (previously unreleased) (Nick/Ellis)**

He knew something was wrong the moment he'd opened the door and found Nick standing there, in all his gambling-man white-suit glory, with a cigarette between his lips and his hands in his pockets.

It wasn't really that different, having Nick around _after_ the zombie apocalypse. Sure, Nick ate, and slept, and watched TV, and there was considerably less running for their lives and screaming-- but for the most part it was almost like he wasn't even there. Ellis would have tried to figure it out, but he couldn't think about Nick if he wanted to-- between work shifts and helping rebuild Savannah, he could barely find it in him to think about himself.

One evening, where the poker channel was still playing in the background and Ellis was dead on his feet(no pun intended), he'd stumbled into the bedroom to find Nick on his mattress in the corner, with his hands folded across his chest and an expression on his face like he'd been _waiting_ for Ellis to come in this whole time.

"Hey, killer," and Ellis almost started-- it was the first acknowledgment Nick had made to him in a week, the _only_ acknowledgment he'd gotten since he'd opened that door that humid, murky night, "I missed you."

Ellis, despite being Ellis, was almost irritated. It was late, and he was tired, and the truck he'd been trying to fix _still_ wouldn't run and Nick had said nothing to him 'til now; He was about to ask, 'how come', how come Nick missed him _tonight_ when he'd been coming home late the whole time Nick had been here, when he'd hardly been around home, how Nick had pretty much just come back into his life only to hole up in his living room oh, oh _fuck_ and it hit him, suddenly.

Ellis' eyes widened and he didn't know _how_ he'd realized but he just fucking _knew_ now; Nick wasn't talking about tonight, or any of the other nights, he was talking about _years_ , years of missing Ellis and something just constricted, right there, in his throat, painful and familiar and new and, _Christ--_ he should have known.

There was something in the way Nick looked at him then, the way the blue television light danced along the lines of his face-- the way that furrow between his eyebrows had smoothed, and he looked tired-- God, did he ever look tired. He looked nervous, too, Nick, fucking _Nick_ looking nervous, chewing on his lips and just _watching_ Ellis.

The combination of it made him look almost horribly defeated, and it might have been the first time Ellis had been at a loss for words, except that one time, when he and Keith but _that wasn't the time for that, Ellis_. Not the time. Not now.

Ellis doesn't even remember closing the distance between them, but he does remember the startled noise Nick makes when he tosses his hat to him. He remembers the fascinated way Nick watches him when he undoes his coveralls, and he's almost confused but then he realizes Nick _still_ has never seen him wearing anything but. He wants to laugh, then, but it would be ruining the moment and even Ellis knew that this moment was fragile, that if he said anything now, Nick would get up, would _leave,_ and hell if Ellis was going to let the other man get away with this, ever.

He doesn't even bother taking off his jeans, kneeling down onto the old, dusty mattress and trying to cross over Nick to wedge himself into the corner like he liked, but Nick reaches out and catches him halfway, threading his fingers into Ellis' mop of quashed hat hair. It's like a dam breaking; Ellis is leaning into it, pushing his head into Nick's hand and he knows he promised himself he wouldn't talk but he just can't _help_ it-- can't help the whispers spilling from his mouth. He whispered how Nick is one messed up son of a bitch, how he's a no-good city slicker, the kind his momma used to tell him to stay away from but Ellis didn't care, how Nick was stupid for leaving them, for leaving _him_ , because they were a fucking _team._ How Nick should have done this ages ago-- fuck, how Ellis missed _him_ too.

And Nick was whispering back, hands tangled in Ellis' short curls, nose pressed to the mechanic's forehead. He whispered, he knew, that he should have known, that Ellis hadn't changed, that he was _sorry._ Actually sorry, even, not like how he was sorry that one time Ellis was being annoying and Nick let that Jockey chase him around a little longer than he had to and then Coach made him be Smoker bait.

That's when Ellis couldn't not laugh, almost choking on it, and he cussed something fierce as he held Nick's head firmly in place.

And Ellis held him, and held him, and Nick held him back because for some reason, that's what they'd been missing this whole time.

 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for having a look.


End file.
